We'll be reviewing each episode of ITV1's new crime drama Whitechapel. This is the first.

"Welcome to hell, gentlemen," thundered the pathologist, prodding at the scooped-out corpse of a disembowelled single mother as delicate DI Chandler (Rupert Penry-Jones) gulped and loosened his lovely tie. She had a point. This was no ordinary murder. Nor indeed was this an ordinary ITV1 thriller. Written by Ben Court and Caroline Ip, Whitechapel lifted its cape and, cackling maniacally, welcomed us into a world of sepia, intestines and Victorianised iniquity.

Blinking confusedly at Whitechapel's smoggy heart is fast-tracked milksop DI Chandler. Last night, he found himself teamed with a group of men who appeared to be comprised entirely of warm farts and polyester. He was, naturally, appalled. "Self-discipline! Self-respect! Deodorant! Go!" he barked at said plods, before storming into the bogs to scrub at his pale fingers with a bar of Cussons Pearl. Not that such cleanliness/panic/obsessive compulsiveness would do much to assist the investigation, mind. "There will be four more victims, at least," warned Ripperologist Edward Buchan (Steve Pemberton). "He won't stop!" Here, it seemed, was a fastidious, 120th anniversary celebration of Jack the Ripper's murders, written in blood on a balloon shaped like death.

Who was this bastard? Clues were scant. "'e was posh but shabby," trembled the policewoman who'd spotted a figure skulking in the vicinity of the corpse. "Had a funny 'at. Had flaps." "One of them furry Russian things," added a further witness, gulpingly. "With flaps."

So. Jack has flaps. And, as blurred CCTV footage attested, the gait of a stretched and upset crow. Not that this was much cop, evidence-wise. By the discovery of the second "canonical" corpse (or the third, if Buchan is to be believed), sensitive greenhorn, reeking plod and tweedy expert were united in a fug of bewilderment. All anyone was sure of was that there was, somewhere, a be-flapped nutter obsessed with replicating the crimes of Jack the Ripper, who will undoubtedly strike again, several times, before presumably vanishing in a similar puff of mystery/notoriety, probably while cackling.

"Congratulations," snarked old-school grunt DS Miles (Phil Davis) to Chandler, peering at the latest eviscerated lady cadaver as his boss retched and held a handkerchief to his affronted nosey-wose. "Now all you've gorra do is solve the unsolvable and catch the most famous serial killer that ever lived. Good luck."

Indeed. So. The best bits thus far, then: Chandler's touching dependence on Tiger Balm (secreted tremulously in the toff's top drawer like a guilty bottle of gin). Pemberton's splendidly fruity Buchan." The ever-present sense of it's-a-larf-innit playfulness that succeeds in puncturing any lurking pomposity. And the not-so-good bits? The jittery, woozy camerawork that accompanies every shot of Ripper and Rippee, mainly - an unnecessarily flashy device that evokes less an involving and possibly slightly supernatural primetime thriller and more a video for a Nine Inch Nails song about pipes.

For now, all that remains is for us to slam our palms on to the debriefing desk, scowl menacingly beneath our deerstalker (with flaps) and provide you, beloved ground troops, with your instructions. To wit: Opinions! Theories! Deodorant! Go!